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Harlequin's Elbow on CD

The characters are all filing in as you become almost comfortable in your seat. They arrange themselves upon the stage in a formation that seems entirely unacceptable to you. None of them wear expressions you recognize or identify with. None of them carry tools that make any sense to you whatsoever (for example, one is carrying a swordfish as though it were a briefcase). When they open their mouths, sounds come out. Beautiful sounds. Melodic, lyrical and haunting. On an intellectual level you are unable to grasp what they are 'saying.' You are unable to decipher any hidden meaning, or gain any useful 'facts,' or 'information' from this experience. And for a moment, this troubles you. Frightens you. But presently you are transfixed. You begin to experience what seems to be a state of elevated awareness, with just a hint of nausea and a touch of gas (which can most likely be attributed to the elderly burritos at the deli next door). Gradually the sounds coming from the stage (which at first reminded you of the clanking of radiators in your parentsº house during childhood winters), begin to sound like words (like 'vanilla,' or 'caterpillar'), and eventually phrases and entire sentences become clear. You are informed that K.P. Devlin has just completed a new record entitled 'Harlequin's Elbow,' and that it simply must be added to your collection. Furthermore, the characters tell you, the rumors concerning Mr. Devlin's intentions to build a state-of-the-art tour blimp and set out on a four month tour of Antarctica, are entirely unfounded and should be disregarded. Two of the characters upon the stage (one prancing about & juggling what appear to be human bones, the other balancing a Middle Eastern stringed instrument upon his head) begin to recite Arthurian legends - the words 'Camelot,' 'Guinevere,' and 'Pendragon' resonate with an uncanny brilliance in your ears. At this point, three llamas approach the edge of the stage. The first llama makes the following announcement: 'Ladies and gentlemen, please bear witness as we unfold the great mystery. At it's center is the tale of Bill the Itinerant Alcoholic, whose diet consists exclusively of corn and corn-based products.' The second and third llama then proceed to fall off the edge of the stage, and the evening's performance comes to a screeching halt. An ambulance arrives, but when it is discovered that the injured llamas have only $11 between them and absolutely no health insurance, they are denied assistance and left in a crumpled, woolly heap beside the stage. Mayhem ensues. All around you are yelping lunatics, careening and pirouetting like whirling dervishes. Beer bottles, sardine tins and cans of corn are hurled indiscriminately. A fire breaks out, and in the distance, you are relieved to hear the fire engines wail. However, your relief turns to dismay as Red Ladder No. 9 collides head-on with the llama-less ambulance that was attempting to flee the scene. As a series of massive explosions begins, you decide it's time to head for home, and elbowing your way past the insanity, you reach the dirty streets. Shaking shards of broken glass from your hair, you run for three or four blocks and then begin looking for a cab. You wait for twenty minutes, but there are no cabs in sight. Finally a limousine turns the corner, and you make your move on it. But you are overtaken by a delivery boy carrying a bag of food, and wearing a cap that reads 'Carnegie Deli.' As the limousine screeches off into the night, carrying one delivery boy, two orders of matzo ball soup, a fruit cup and a bill for $79, you are left standing on the corner of 6th and Peccadillo. Leaning back against a lamppost, staring up into a turbulent flurry of moths, you realize your night has only just begun. It is quiet. The only sound you hear is the low vibrant rumble the city always makes at 2:00 AM. It occurs to you that this is the sound of life. Millions of lives actually, each one emanating it's own distinct energy, and each one mingling with every other in some way or another. The sounds of life, now a distant rumble, a short while ago a grating cacophony. And now, through the night, you hear one individual sound rising up, a distant but clear voice floating on the wind. You struggle to identify it. It could almost be Scottish pipes, but you're not sure. All you are sure of is that you must follow it. And so you do. -K.P. Devlin K.P. Devlin writes songs. He then sings them. His music is at times intense, passionate and cynical, sometimes hilarious, occasionally dark and almost vicious, and quite often, a mixture of all of the above. Musically, he has tapped into many familiar genres (rock, folk, Celtic, blues and country), and his songs often have a 'familiar' quality to them (as though you've heard them before, even though you know you haven't), and yet there is something refreshing about them as well. It is believed that K.P. Devlin was born in a large city somewhere in the United States. However, some folks claim he is originally from Newfoundland, and still others are of the notion that he was raised by shepherds in a small village in Albania. He has spent significant amounts of time in Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Atlanta, Austin and New York City (which he has called home for quite some time). He was reportedly seen entering the borough of Manhattan last week, riding upon a gray mule. Perched atop the mule (whose name turns out to be Tigerlily), plodding along the walkway atop the Brooklyn Bridge, Devlin strummed his guitar. Seemingly unconcerned by the din of traffic down below, he was working on a new song. For that is what K.P. Devlin does. He writes songs. He then sings them. After listening to his first two CD's, 'Spirit of the Mule' (1995), and 'Scarecrow Land' (1997), it becomes evident that his influences include Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Bruce Cockburn and Lou Reed. Lyrically, Devlin's songs are at times intense, passionate and cynical, sometimes hilarious, occasionally dark and almost vicious, and quite often, a mixture of all of the above. Musically, he has tapped into many familiar genres (rock, folk, Celtic, blues and country), and his songs often have a 'familiar' quality to them (as though you've heard them before, even though you know you haven't), and yet there is something refreshing about them as well. Music critic, Basil Palthmeyer, says of Devlin's song 'Pink Elephants & Purple Dinosaurs,' '[it's] enough to make Dylan wish he were young again.' And according to Christopher Hess of the Austin Chronicle, 'He comes to Texas from NYC via parts unknown with a swagger in his voice and an edge to his pen that will definitely raise eyebrows.' On Devlin's brand new CD, 'Harlequin's Elbow' (co-produced by Devlin and former Bob Dylan bassist, Kenny Aaronson), he presents us with 10 new songs, as well as wonderful reworkings of two of his older tunes, 'Everything' and 'Camelia.' The album features an outstanding cast of supporting players, and is, without a doubt, Devlin's most powerful work to date.

The characters are all filing in as you become almost comfortable in your seat. They arrange themselves upon the stage in a formation that seems entirely unacceptable to you. None of them wear expressions you recognize or identify with. None of them carry tools that make any sense to you whatsoever (for example, one is carrying a swordfish as though it were a briefcase). When they open their mouths, sounds come out. Beautiful sounds. Melodic, lyrical and haunting. On an intellectual level you are unable to grasp what they are 'saying.' You are unable to decipher any hidden meaning, or gain any useful 'facts,' or 'information' from this experience. And for a moment, this troubles you. Frightens you. But presently you are transfixed. You begin to experience what seems to be a state of elevated awareness, with just a hint of nausea and a touch of gas (which can most likely be attributed to the elderly burritos at the deli next door). Gradually the sounds coming from the stage (which at first reminded you of the clanking of radiators in your parentsº house during childhood winters), begin to sound like words (like 'vanilla,' or 'caterpillar'), and eventually phrases and entire sentences become clear. You are informed that K.P. Devlin has just completed a new record entitled 'Harlequin's Elbow,' and that it simply must be added to your collection. Furthermore, the characters tell you, the rumors concerning Mr. Devlin's intentions to build a state-of-the-art tour blimp and set out on a four month tour of Antarctica, are entirely unfounded and should be disregarded. Two of the characters upon the stage (one prancing about & juggling what appear to be human bones, the other balancing a Middle Eastern stringed instrument upon his head) begin to recite Arthurian legends - the words 'Camelot,' 'Guinevere,' and 'Pendragon' resonate with an uncanny brilliance in your ears. At this point, three llamas approach the edge of the stage. The first llama makes the following announcement: 'Ladies and gentlemen, please bear witness as we unfold the great mystery. At it's center is the tale of Bill the Itinerant Alcoholic, whose diet consists exclusively of corn and corn-based products.' The second and third llama then proceed to fall off the edge of the stage, and the evening's performance comes to a screeching halt. An ambulance arrives, but when it is discovered that the injured llamas have only $11 between them and absolutely no health insurance, they are denied assistance and left in a crumpled, woolly heap beside the stage. Mayhem ensues. All around you are yelping lunatics, careening and pirouetting like whirling dervishes. Beer bottles, sardine tins and cans of corn are hurled indiscriminately. A fire breaks out, and in the distance, you are relieved to hear the fire engines wail. However, your relief turns to dismay as Red Ladder No. 9 collides head-on with the llama-less ambulance that was attempting to flee the scene. As a series of massive explosions begins, you decide it's time to head for home, and elbowing your way past the insanity, you reach the dirty streets. Shaking shards of broken glass from your hair, you run for three or four blocks and then begin looking for a cab. You wait for twenty minutes, but there are no cabs in sight. Finally a limousine turns the corner, and you make your move on it. But you are overtaken by a delivery boy carrying a bag of food, and wearing a cap that reads 'Carnegie Deli.' As the limousine screeches off into the night, carrying one delivery boy, two orders of matzo ball soup, a fruit cup and a bill for $79, you are left standing on the corner of 6th and Peccadillo. Leaning back against a lamppost, staring up into a turbulent flurry of moths, you realize your night has only just begun. It is quiet. The only sound you hear is the low vibrant rumble the city always makes at 2:00 AM. It occurs to you that this is the sound of life. Millions of lives actually, each one emanating it's own distinct energy, and each one mingling with every other in some way or another. The sounds of life, now a distant rumble, a short while ago a grating cacophony. And now, through the night, you hear one individual sound rising up, a distant but clear voice floating on the wind. You struggle to identify it. It could almost be Scottish pipes, but you're not sure. All you are sure of is that you must follow it. And so you do. -K.P. Devlin K.P. Devlin writes songs. He then sings them. His music is at times intense, passionate and cynical, sometimes hilarious, occasionally dark and almost vicious, and quite often, a mixture of all of the above. Musically, he has tapped into many familiar genres (rock, folk, Celtic, blues and country), and his songs often have a 'familiar' quality to them (as though you've heard them before, even though you know you haven't), and yet there is something refreshing about them as well. It is believed that K.P. Devlin was born in a large city somewhere in the United States. However, some folks claim he is originally from Newfoundland, and still others are of the notion that he was raised by shepherds in a small village in Albania. He has spent significant amounts of time in Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Atlanta, Austin and New York City (which he has called home for quite some time). He was reportedly seen entering the borough of Manhattan last week, riding upon a gray mule. Perched atop the mule (whose name turns out to be Tigerlily), plodding along the walkway atop the Brooklyn Bridge, Devlin strummed his guitar. Seemingly unconcerned by the din of traffic down below, he was working on a new song. For that is what K.P. Devlin does. He writes songs. He then sings them. After listening to his first two CD's, 'Spirit of the Mule' (1995), and 'Scarecrow Land' (1997), it becomes evident that his influences include Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Bruce Cockburn and Lou Reed. Lyrically, Devlin's songs are at times intense, passionate and cynical, sometimes hilarious, occasionally dark and almost vicious, and quite often, a mixture of all of the above. Musically, he has tapped into many familiar genres (rock, folk, Celtic, blues and country), and his songs often have a 'familiar' quality to them (as though you've heard them before, even though you know you haven't), and yet there is something refreshing about them as well. Music critic, Basil Palthmeyer, says of Devlin's song 'Pink Elephants & Purple Dinosaurs,' '[it's] enough to make Dylan wish he were young again.' And according to Christopher Hess of the Austin Chronicle, 'He comes to Texas from NYC via parts unknown with a swagger in his voice and an edge to his pen that will definitely raise eyebrows.' On Devlin's brand new CD, 'Harlequin's Elbow' (co-produced by Devlin and former Bob Dylan bassist, Kenny Aaronson), he presents us with 10 new songs, as well as wonderful reworkings of two of his older tunes, 'Everything' and 'Camelia.' The album features an outstanding cast of supporting players, and is, without a doubt, Devlin's most powerful work to date.